


doux-amer

by pictureperfectwatermelon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: (explanation for tags in notes), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Blood, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Sexual Assault, Self-Harm, Sexual Assault, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 07:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pictureperfectwatermelon/pseuds/pictureperfectwatermelon
Summary: “You have a real sweet tooth, huh Peter?” Tucker said once, while letting him try a delicate, Japanese cream puff. Peter simply flushed pink, then took another bite. Tucker watched as he ate, his eyes never leaving his face.





	doux-amer

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a 'May's Abusive Boyfriend Trope' fic, but one that made more sense to me? I've read quite a few of them, and they all have that similar theme of the boyfriend beating Peter's ass out of nowhere, or being an alcoholic... I felt like a lot of the conflict written in some of the fics, while realistic (as children do suffer physical abuse), either felt too rushed, extremely aggressive out of nowhere, or forced Peter to respond in a way that did not flow well with his character. It's one of the reasons I wrote it as an AU, where he's non-powered, so that it would complicate things less. 
> 
> Tony's relationship to Peter is kept vague, mostly because I couldn't decide whether I wanted this to be a Biological Dad Tony situation, or something else entirely. You can make it up! 
> 
> *Check the ending notes for more on the tags.

May’s got a new boyfriend. His name is Tucker, and he works as a clinical pharmacist at the hospital May works at as a nurse. He's got dark brown hair, slightly graying in some areas but still a full head. He's got a pretty easy smile, perfect white teeth framed by a stubble. His jawline is defined, he's a little under six feet, and his physique, while nothing special, is slightly muscular. His wardrobe seems to consist of only slacks and polos, but he manages to avoid looking like a dad, especially when he slips on a nice pair of designer shades. Whatever body soap or cologne he uses smells of lavender and spearmint, just subtle enough to avoid smelling like a tube of toothpaste rather than a human being. Sometimes, when he laughs, he guffaws, and on an occasion, snorts, and it’s endearing rather than ugly and has May splitting her sides right alongside him. The man’s interests include golfing, fairs, collecting designer shades, travelling and funnily enough, horoscopes. What’s even better is that May is an aries, and Tucker is a gemini. Almost a match made in the stars. 

All in all, Tucker is a pretty average guy. There isn’t anything about him that makes him ‘stand out’ amongst the other hordes of white guys in New York with an italian ancestry. But May isn’t looking for a prince charming, or ‘The One’, or the fated one-in-a-million. She’s just looking for someone compatible, someone who  _ gets  _ her. Someone who shares the same interests as her, is attractive, and is looking for something casual, and is  _ always _ open to more.  _ Oh-- _ she’s also looking for someone who won’t mind the fact that she’s got a 15 year old nephew to look after.

Peter knows it’s been hard for May to find love again. Ben  _ was  _ her one-in-a-million. He was also fairly generic, from an entirely unbiased view, but there was something about his soft but strong body, his angry mug, and complete inability to find matching pairs of socks that drew her to him. They got married after knowing each other for two years, and were together ever since, with their obvious bumps in the road, but never, ever, not  _ once,  _ taking off their rose-tinted glasses. May and Ben seemed to have never left the honeymoon phase, still fairly young, still calling each other affectionate pet names, still taking each other out to overpriced italian food on Valentine day. Marriage was never considered a ‘game over’ for Ben, unless that ‘game over’ was his tireless search for his one and only--because he found it in May, and if anything, marrying her for him was like starting a new, better level in the game. May loved Ben and Ben loved May, forever and always. And then, Ben died.

Following a year of grief, boxes upon boxes of tissues, sitting and staring at photos of her and Ben framed in a tacky, Hot Wheels red heart on Valentine day, and hating  _ herself  _ for the death of her husband, she managed to move on. She would never forget Ben; Peter would never forget Ben either, but she came to peace with the fact that he had passed on, that none of it had been her fault, and that she needed to move forward, without letting the constant emptiness block her life. It’s what Ben would’ve wanted her to do, because he hated seeing her cry and more than  _ anything,  _ he  _ hated  _ when she cried because of something he did, even when the tears were of joy. Plus, she had a 13 year old kid to take care of, one that was just as shaken and traumatized, if not  _ more  _ traumatized by his death, considering the fact that he had been right there when the trigger had been pulled and the blood had been spilt on the concrete right outside their local bodega. (Somehow, in an act of mercy, the place had been shut down.)

Her first couple of attempts at dating had been, frankly, a disaster. It was awkward, being with someone who didn’t already fully understand her the way Ben already had, and realizing she had to do  _ work  _ in order to ever even think about reaching that trust and love she had with him. Guys were pushy, they wanted to move fast too soon, or they wanted in her pants right after meeting her, or they were superficial and boring, or they called her ‘crazy’ and ‘hysterical’ for keeping up her walls only three weeks into the relationship. Needless to say, May was reaching the end of her rope with the whole dating business, dragging her feet through blind dates set up by friends, swiping left on risky dating apps, and standing along the side lines of clubs. Tucker was her ‘last resort’, so to say. She told herself, and Peter, that if he didn’t work out, she was officially done putting herself out there. It just wasn’t worth the effort, plus, the Chanel perfume that she adored was beginning to run out. Tucker would be the last, and if he sucked, that was that.

Turns out Tucker is the most considerate guy on the planet. He doesn’t push, or force her to talk about anything she doesn’t want to. He doesn’t force himself into her life and apartment and into her schedule, thinking she’ll immediately accomodate to him, because that’s an important fact to keep in mind about May--she’s effortlessly independent. She has never  _ needed  _ anyone. She  _ loved  _ Ben, but before Ben, she was doing just fine on her own, and had she not met him, she would have continued to be just fine. Not that she would ever choose anything over Ben, but it was the truth. Some guys couldn’t accept that independence, expecting her to be clingy right away and worship the ground they walk on, but Tucker was cool with it, admired it, even. Noticing it a month into their casual relationship and remarking on how it made her unique.

They’ve been going nearly a year strong now, and things are getting serious. He’s been coming over more and more, staying in the apartment, drifting in and out. Peter will wake up and trudge into the one bathroom in their two bedroom apartment to find an extra toothbrush left behind, or a razor in the medicine cabinet that wasn’t there before (and it wasn’t Peter’s because no matter how hard he prayed, he could not seem to grow any facial hair). Tucker is clean, never leaves behind a mess, but he can’t help leaving behind traces of his presence, and May doesn’t try very hard to hide it. They don’t… They don’t do anything in bed, after dark, except for talk, really, and when they do talk they keep it at a respectful volume for Peter, which he appreciates. But May isn’t ashamed, nor is she trying to shield him from her new boyfriend, because it seems like Tucker is quickly becoming a permanent fixture in her life, whether Peter likes it or not.

He still remembers the first time he was introduced to him. Before leaving for work, early, she told him while rushing out the door with a banana in hand,  _ “I have a guest coming home tonight, and I want you to meet him. So can you go and pick up some food from the thai place we love? Just the usual order, and maybe some desert? Thank you, babe.”  _ Then left him with a couple 20s. He marveled at the amount in his hand--she  _ never  _ trusted him with this much, not alone, at least. He did as she said, then came back, hands full of different thai dishes, the scent mouth watering, to a man he had never seen once before in his life.

_ “Peter, this is Tucker. Tucker, Peter, my nephew. This is the guest I was talking about, honey. I wanted you to get to know him because, well, we’re dating.”  _ She was incredibly gentle when she broke the news, her voice betraying the excitable smile on her face, clearly trying to gauge his reaction and assure him not to worry, because  _ Ben.  _ Peter can’t lie, when he saw Tucker in the apartment, when she said the words  _ “we’re dating”,  _ he felt a flare of anger in his chest.  _ Dating?  _ What the hell? What ever happened to true love? Did Ben mean nothing to her? And what did Tucker think, coming in and dating a clearly emotionally vulnerable woman? Trying to take advantage of her, somehow? But he buried all of those thoughts quickly; Ben would slap him over the head if he heard him speaking of his wife like that. She was a grown ass woman, she could date whoever she pleased. So he just nodded, unloaded the cartons of thai food and began serving it into plates.

The first couple of weeks, being around Tucker, Peter was apprehensive. The guy wasn’t pushy, but Peter was still keeping his distance, despite his many attempts to get closer to the 14 year old. Tucker almost tried  _ too  _ hard to please him, acting on his best behavior, trying to find things they had in common, watching shows with him and offering to help with homework or buy him a new pair of shoes. Peter definitely didn’t appreciate it, for his own stupid reasons, and pushed him away, but, instead of getting upset or pissed at Peter for being so cold, it only seemed to make Tucker more determined.

_ “I don’t know how to feel about him though.”  _ He told Mr. Stark one day, while working on nothing in particular in the lab. Mr. Stark, a screwdriver in between his teeth and his hands guts deep in some sort of busted machinery cocked a brow at him.

_ “Well… Does he treat your aunt right? Is he nice?” _

_ “Yes, he’s really nice to May, and she seems to like him a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And he is nice, he’s always offering to buy me new shoes, or making small talk with me over like, whatever show I’m watching or some pop culture thing he thinks is ‘in’. It’s kind of lame, but I guess.. He is trying.” _

_ “Then, I think you should give him a chance.” _

Immediately, he analyzed his relationship with his aunt’s boyfriend, and felt incredibly guilty. He was so  _ mean  _ to a man who had done nothing to him. Ignoring him, rolling his eyes when his back was turned, never taking anything from him, never addressing him when they sat together during dinner or outright excusing himself from having to eat when the man was there. May noticed too, and she tried her best to awkwardly keep the atmosphere friendly, which usually only made him mad, but on the train ride back to the apartment from Stark tower, he realized how much of a burden he had been on his aunt. She just wanted them to get along, bringing him on their ‘travels’ in an attempt to get them to bond, or leaving them alone to try and get them to talk, while Peter just behaved like a brat. So that night, he promised himself that he would turn his attitude around and begin treating Tucker with respect.

About a week into changing his attitude, Tucker entered the apartment while May was out, a small white box in hand and a surprisingly heartfelt confession for Peter.

_ “I’ll never be Ben, Peter. And  I know how much his death affected you. But know that I will never, ever try to replace that man and who he was to you. If I ever overstep my bounds, just let me know, okay?”  _ Then he opened the white box and revealed a personal chocolate cake, and told Peter they would share the thing, when he ended up giving Peter the majority of it.

_ “I got your aunt something more spectacular,”  _ He said, after Peter expressed feeling bad for not saving her a slice, opening another small box to reveal an opera cake with the words ‘ _ Happy Anniversary’  _ written on a chocolate plaque wedged into the pastry. It was quite the sight, absolutely beautiful and meticulously crafted, and undoubtedly expensive.

Tucker, as it turned out, was a really chill guy. He worked as a clinical pharmacist, which is how he met May, working at the same hospital. Was extremely knowledgeable about different types of medicine, and made sure to keep their cabinets stocked with not only the most effective medicines, but also home remedies, because he knew May had a slight aversion for medication. When either of them got sick, he always knew just what to do, from the different types of teas and their uses, from the food they should eat, and could easily and quickly diagnose either one of them. To be fair, May could do the same thing, but it was hard for her to think clearly when she was barely awake and with a fever of 102. Despite being a health professional, he wasn’t a health nut. He didn’t demand they eat a salad with sixteen hundred different leaves for every dinner, or become vegan, or something else extreme, but still found ways for them to ditch the less healthy things for their better alternatives, and somehow convinced May to switch to organic produce.

Tucker had an affinity for sweets. Probably one of the most memorable and weird things about the man, in Peter’s opinion. Also probably why he could never be a health nut. He didn’t necessarily gorge himself with sweets and candy, although he did enjoy a pastry and a chocolate bar here and there. He was just strangely knowledgeable on baking techniques, the names of french pastries, japanese baked goods, and the difference between chocolate made of ‘real’ ingredients compared to ‘fake’ ones. Chocolate was chocolate to Peter, so when Tucker offered him a bar wrapped in a golden foil, he ate it without paying too much attention to whatever Tucker was saying, which always earned him a playful swat and a lingering, adoring smile.

_ “You have a real sweet tooth, huh Peter?”  _ Tucker said once, while letting him try a delicate, japanese cream puff. Peter simply flushed pink, then took another bite. Tucker watched as he ate, his eyes never leaving his face.

He remembers, once, when May had slipped walking down the subways stairs and had to be taken to the hospital. He royally  _ freaked-- _ terrified of what may have happened to her, imagining her bruised, bleeding, eye swollen and small lying in the huge, white bedsheets in the hospital rooms. Had to spend ten minutes attempting to control his breathing, unable to stop the attack attack from taking over his entire body, shaking on the floor and sweating like crazy. When he recovered, Tucker was waiting for him in the living room, holding Peter’s jacket and covering his mouth with his other hand. They didn’t exchange too many words, they just walked out the apartment, Tucker hot on Peter’s heels, and made their way to the hospital.

While sitting in the waiting room, Tucker got up without a word, leaving Peter behind to ruminate in his own thoughts. Not that there were a lot of sane thoughts running through his mind. Ever since Ben’s death, Peter’s anxiety regarding accidents or injuries had skyrocketed. Constantly, he had haunting daydreams and nightmares of scenarios in which May died or disappeared or got kidnapped, and he had no one to turn to. Being left behind in Queens, the life drained out of their small but quirky and cozy apartment in the absence of the wonderful woman. May was strong when Peter was weary, and even though they sometimes butted heads, both being fairly headstrong people, never once did he doubt that she had only the best in mind for him. So sitting and waiting for the doctor to allow him to go and see his aunt was extremely nerve wracking.

Before he got too deep in his thoughts, however, he felt a tap on his shoulder and jolted, his head tilting up quickly to address the large shadow hovering above him. It was just Tucker, with visible bags under his eyes, presumably from stress, and a concerned look on his face. The man didn’t say anything, just held up a chocolate Crunch bar to Peter, and the teen reached out with shaky hands to take it, unwrapping the thing and taking a bite out of it.

They sat in silence, Peter taking small bites before snapping it in half and sharing it with the man, like passing a piece of comfort to each other. The anxiety balled up in his stomach remained, but it shrank, significantly, when Peter realized he had someone by his side. Someone who cared about him, someone who would comfort him when he needed it, an  _ adult  _ to rely on. Most importantly, he was put at ease knowing there was someone else who cared as much as he did about May.

_ “Hey kid,”  _ Mr. Stark said one day when he came over, about nine months into May and Tucker’s relationship.  _ “I feel like you never come around anymore.” _

Peter felt a twinge of guilt at that, because it was the truth. Ever since that night with May, he and Tucker became closer. What started off as one-sided hatred became a relationship full of respect and amiable companionship. May was all the happier, nearly crying when she saw the two of them butchering chocolate pancakes on a Sunday morning, Peter with his nose covered in store bought whipped cream and Tucker’s pajamas white with flour. He had no obligation to come and visit Mr. Stark every other weekend, but it was kind of their thing, and the man said he would put it down as an internship to give him a little something-something to put on his resume. He hadn’t been coming over regularly in several months, his attendance nearly zero in the recent weeks.

_ “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I just got kind of caught up in something at home, personal stuff.”  _ He offered in excuse.

_ “That a new sweater?”  _ Peter followed the man’s finger to his chest, which was pointed to his Columbia University sweater.

_ “Oh, yeah! Tucker--May’s boyfriend--gave it to me.”  _ He explained. Tucker had said,  _ “I don’t need this thing floating around in my wardrobe anymore, plus, someone as smart as you? Might as well already be enrolled.”  _ Peter didn’t bother telling the man his dream school was MIT, because the gesture was so kind, and Peter  _ loved  _ sweaters, especially large, already worn in ones. When he thrifted around Queens, he typically exclusively picked out large sweaters and jeans, knowing they would already be worn in and most importantly, comfy. When he slipped Tucker’s sweater on, it was just as he liked it--the sleeves spilling over his fingers and ending a little bit above his thighs.

_ “Huh. So you came around to the guy, finally?”  _ Peter just nodded his head and hummed in affirmation.

Usually, when May had night shifts on Friday’s or work on the weekends, Peter would resign himself to a day inside, studying or working on homework. This way, he was never behind on assignments, and was always over-prepared for any pop quiz coming up, but that meant his weekends passed by in a boring blur. May was regretful when she had to inform him of work, because even on weekends they spent inside, he was never alone. But when she wasn’t there, it was just him in their large apartment complex, surrounded by many but still feeling so lonely. However, now that Tucker is around, he never has to feel that way again.

Sometimes they go to Manhattan, taking a nearly hour train ride just to mess around in Midtown. They’ll get ice cream if it’s warm outside, and Tucker will pay extra for a waffle cone and as many toppings as Peter wants. When they pass the Bloomingdale’s, they make fun of the weird poses the mannequins were contorted in, and complain about not understanding the finer intricacies of ‘high fashion’. They envied the elegant,  _ ridiculously  _ expensive apartment buildings, fantasizing about the life of the affluent, but both sincerely agreeing that even without a buttload of money, they had it good. The sun would shine, Peter’s cheeks would hurt from smiling so much, his stomach was always full of some sort of savory dish Tucker pushed on him and by the time they reached Queens, Peter considered himself fully  _ tuckered  _ out. (Hah.)

_ “Hey Pete,”  _ Tucker said, knocking on the door to his room before gently opening the door.  _ “One last thing before you go to bed.” _

_ “Yeah?”  _ He asked, sitting up in his seat where he was slouched over, scrolling through his Pinterest while listening to some tunes.

_ “You’ve gotta try this, buddy,”  _ Tucker’s voice was low but clearly painted with excitement, and Peter could not help the charmed smile that fell upon his lips. He stood up, leaving his phone on the desk and following Tucker out to the kitchen-living room, where a pretty eclair sat waiting for him.

_ “We’re splitting this thing, no way I’m letting you eat it all, you savage.”  _ Peter just chuckled, his cheeks turning a little red at the barb. Probably calling back to the time Peter took on a bet from Ned to eat six boston cream donuts in less than a minute. Tucker walked in during, his eyes wide from shock from the whole scenario, but did not make any moves to stop either of them.

The eclair was good, not really Peter’s favorite pastry, which he told Tucker, who simply nodded his head but did not comment anything further. After finishing his half, he followed it with a glass of water, then sat back on the couch, feeling happier than he had in quite a long time. Peter spent so much of his life wishing he had a ‘real’ family--and he knew that there was no such thing as a ‘real’ family, especially not in a city like New York, but it didn’t mean the media didn’t like glamorizing it, and that Peter didn’t want to live it. He almost achieved that with May and Ben, until he died, and all his hopes of being ‘normal’ sunk like the Titanic. But with Tucker around? He could have that. He was starting to feel like he had that.  _ Parents,  _ not just ‘guardians’.

The shock of referring to his aunt and her boyfriend as ‘parents’ was muted, however, by this warm feeling in his stomach. Like something radioactive was emitting low levels of energy, thrumming, not pulsing but sending out warmth in waves.  _ Weird,  _ he thought to himself because last he checked, he had no allergies.  _ Maybe I’m just tired,  _ he thought, then stood, to try and bring himself to his room, but his legs failed him, falling under his weight and collapsing into a pile of fleshy jello, and he held out his hands barely in time to catch himself.

_ What? What’s… What’s happening… “What..”  _ Is all he managed to spit out though. The world swirled, the lights were  _ so  _ dim, and he could no longer hear the sounds of the neighbors next door arguing. The carpet was soft but sometimes it felt like he was floating through space, not grounded at all. Was he standing? Was he sitting? Was he walking?  _ Hello? What… What’s wrong with me? _

Then, the next morning, he woke up.

Tucker, who was sitting in the kitchen-living room was reading something on his phone, barely noticing his entrance. May was home, that much was clear from the extra set of shoes near the door of their apartment. He felt so disoriented, but most of all, displaced. Even his clothing was different from the night before--switched into the large maroon Tommy Hilfiger sweater he thrifted a while back, and a pair of black sweatpants. When had he changed last night? ...Actually,  _ what  _ happened last night?

_ “Tucker..?”  _ He asked, his voice coming out a little sore. Tucker looked up, and replied,  _ “Yeah, bud? What’s up?” _

_ “N...Nevermind.” _

All morning, he was fine. They ate some cereal together, Peter finished off the rest of the blueberries while Tucker and May talked about couple stuff. He mostly zoned out, typical of him, staring out the window to the streets below. Washed the dishes, watched a bit of the news, then returned to his room, taking in the messy bed, the pillows discarded on the floor along with his socks from the day before.

He can’t explain it, he doesn’t know what brought it on; But Peter burst into a hysterical fit of tears.

May bust into his room, her hair in a ponytail but her eyes wide with worry. She held him, rocked him back and forth on his bed, whispering sweet nothings into his ear and kissing his cheek. He held her back, tight, his nails digging into her back which was covered by the soft cloth of the hospital sweater. They sat there, together, undisturbed even though his door was wide open, for probably 15 minutes, before his tears subsided, leaving him with red-rimmed eyes and a snotty nose.

Sometimes, horrible memories will resurface. Just out of nowhere, with no prompting, for no reason whatsoever. Peter will think,  _ I’m done with this chapter of my life,  _ but then chapters later, it’ll come back and bite him in the ass like a tax on a free car. Recovery is hard, it really is one step forward two steps back, and even when he thinks he’s made it through the hard part, that doesn’t stop him from being haunted by it. Knowing it can never touch him again, at least, not physically, but mentally and emotionally, as many times as it wants to.

_ “He can never hurt you again.”  _ May said, once he explained.  _ “I will never let him hurt you again.” _

_ “Thank you. I love you.”  _ He whispered over and over again into her hair, like a prayer. His hands could barely stay still, shaking even when brushing it through his aunt’s long brown hair, a full body shiver following with every breath.

That night, he went to Mr. Stark’s tower, and sat on the floor of his large living room, staring at the city around him. There are only artificial stars, here, a mirage of car lights swimming on the roads. Still, he finds comfort, knowing he can be as ‘weird’ as he wants without worrying May or Tucker. Especially Tucker, he didn’t want the man seeing this side of him yet.

Mr. Stark understood the trauma, because he liked to do the same thing. Self-destruct, lock himself somewhere nobody can find him and fantasize about vanishing from existence, drinking himself silly, until he can barely remember who he is. Let his soul rot, and his body, while he’s at it. Peter likes to sit in silence, scratch at his cuticles until they bleed and bleed and bleed and watch it flow like a beautiful river. Rock himself back and forth like a deranged mental patient, whispering things under his breath that seem nonsensical to others but make sense to him. Scream, kick something, scratch at the deep scars left behind from when he was 11 but so,  _ so  _ desperate to make the pain go away.

_ “Come on kid, you’ll ruin my white carpet,”  _ He weakly admonished after noticing Peter had begun picking at his cuticles.

_ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sor--” _

_ “Kid.”  _ He shut up.

He left that night, thumb bandaged in cute Hello Kitty bandaids, nail polish shittily applied on his hands and his old scars smeared with glitter.

_ “This month has been pretty rough.”  _ Tucker said one Saturday night. He cooked dinner for the two of them, salmon fillet, pilaf, and some vegetables arranged on his plate to look fancy. It tasted delicious--probably because Tucker hadn’t been cursed with the Parker’s inability to master the maillard reaction.

Peter didn’t really grace that with an answer. It  _ had  _ been a pretty bad month. After breaking down, Peter spent the month in a recessive state. Crying almost every night, silently. May joining him in his room to make sure he gets at least an hour of sleep before school in favor of her own rest. Staying out of the apartment until 10PM, just riding the train or the bus until the last stop, then making his way back to Queens. Tucker’s razors were removed from the bathroom, Peter is ashamed to admit that he was deliberately looking for them. The knives were all hidden, too, just blunt butter knives left behind. When Tucker questioned why they had gone missing, a completely innocent quiry, Peter just flushed from embarrassment and teared up, and May tried to distract her boyfriend.

_ “I thought that we deserved to have a little something special.”  _ At that, Tucker placed a medium sized cake in the middle of the dinner table.  _ “It’s a crepe cake, strawberry flavored. These things are fantastic, they’re not too sweet, they’re light, and literally ingenius. A crepe, made into a cake, I mean come on? Why’d it take so long for this invention to go mainstream?”  _ Tucker joked lightly. Peter just offered a small smile, appreciating how hard the man was trying to raise his spirits. Plus, the cake did look good, and smelt wonderful.

He was handed a generous slice, served on one of their beautiful tea plates and was given a small but fancy fork to eat it with to give it that feel of  _ je ne sais quoi.  _ By then, Peter’s mood had considerably improved. The month  _ was  _ rough, but, that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn over a new leaf, start anew next month. Relapsing happens, and he feels shameful, he feels like a terrible victim for not rising above and facing his demons, but it’s not about the media’s portrayal of how he should be recovering, but his own journey. If that means relapsing, or having one bad month, then so be it, but this doesn’t have to be where the journey ends. It’s hard, but he can weather the storm and find the rainbow at the end of it, as cheesy as it sounds. Plus, May would be there for him, she’d never let him get hurt again, and Tucker, although he was kept in the dark, was providing as much support as he could.

So when he took the first bite, then the second, then the fourth, he let a large smile break onto his face. He laughed whilst he cried and ate the crepe cake, and Tucker watched him, his mouth quirked up into a relieved smile, his eyes crinkled at the sides.

He washed down the slice with water, then quietly stood and gave Tucker a big hug, pressing himself firmly against the man, holding on as tightly as possible. He couldn’t speak right now, but he hoped the man got the message. Tucker just said,  _ “Anything for you, Pete.”  _ And wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist, burying his head into his hair.

An hour later, the world began to swirl. His stomach felt warm, and his senses began dulling, drifting in and out of consciousness, barely able to pay attention to whatever Youtube video he’d been watching, but he just rubbed his eyes, assuming he was tired. Made sense, he cried at least three times that day, not to mention the week was an emotional rollercoaster. His body was tired, so so tired, so he allowed himself to succumb to it. He let his body sink down onto the soft mattress of his bed, not even bothering to throw covers over himself, or take off his socks, or plug his phone into the socket.

It happened, that night.

He was woke once, for a couple of seconds, at the sound of something shuffling around in his room. He didn’t try to rationalize the sound, his eyelids heavy and his head spinning, and fell back under.

He woke again, more shuffling, quieter, this time. The sound of something soft falling on the ground.

Now, Peter couldn’t tell if these things happened consecutively, or hours after each other.

The third time he woke up, it was because he felt something tugging at his lower half, pulling his pants down.

Between the final time he woke up, he drifted in and out of the living world, each time not really registering anything, until eventually, he became lucid enough.

There was soft grunting, a little breath exhaled every once in a while. The feeling of something hot lodged tightly between his thighs, moving back and forth with ease. The gentle slapping sounds of a body connecting with his.

A whisper,  _ “I’ll never let anyone hurt you, Peter. I’ll never let anyone touch you again, baby. So good, so good… So sweet..” _

Jogging into Stark tower the following week, he called out to his mentor,  _ “Hey Mr. Stark! I’m pretty excited to work on something new today! My week has been pretty okay; Just basic stuff, like school, you know, ugh, haha! Just the usual. Mmm failed my spanish test, but whatever I guess you know. I deserve that. Gosh, I love it here, love it here, really, have I ever told you that? The view is great, it’s spectacular, it really is. So, what are we gonna do today? You got anything planned? Oooh, what’s that--” _

_ “Kid.” _

_ “Yes, sir?” _

_ “Chill.”  _ Was all he said. Peter nodded, quickly, then forced himself to calm down.

Tucker was so, so, nice to May. He held her hand always, was proud of all of her accomplishments, and always had her back. He cooked dinner when she could not, took care of Peter when she was busy with work, and hugged her when the stress of the day grew to be too much. He was a generic looking white guy in New York with an italian ancestry, but he was everything May was looking for in a man, and they had been dating for nearly a year and a half, now. With Ben, it had taken two years before the two had properly eloped, and that two year mark is nearly approaching for May and Tucker. The guy loves collecting designer shades, golfing, and has the Co-Star app downloaded on his phone to receive daily, personalized horoscopes. He’s a gemini, and May is an aries, a match made in the stars.

He also has an affinity for sweets.

_ So fucking stupid,  _ Peter yelled in his mind, hitting his hand against his head repeatedly, his hair getting wet from the blood steadily dripping out of both of the cuticles of his thumbs. He should have noticed, he should have noticed! They never did anything in bed, after dark.

They  _ never  _ did anything in bed, after dark.

About three weeks after what Peter perceived to be his first assault, he is offered another grand pastry. A brownie cheesecake, New York style. A wonderful treat, one that Peter would jump to eat, as it was a combination of two of the best things. But that night, he ate it slowly, his mind preoccupied with what might happen to him. He was offered a glass of water by Tucker, he drank it down. He hugged the man, loser this time, only to be pulled in tighter, Tucker said,  _ “Anything for you, Peter,”  _ again. He excused himself to his room, got under the covers, and waited.

He snapped awake that night--nearly jolting, his skeleton jumping out of his skin had it not been for the weight on top of him. Thrusting, hips snapping forward and back,  _ slowly,  _ as though he were savouring the feeling of Peter’s smooth, barely plush thighs. His hands holding firmly to his hips, bruising the bone there. This time, Peter only woke, once. This time, he stayed awake, the entire time.

Tucker spilt his hot spend all over his stomach, and the man sat back, unmoving and silent except the sound of his heavy breathing, admiring his work. Peter lay still, the perfect little ragdoll.

_ “So perfect,”  _ Tucker finally whispered,  _ “So fucking beautiful. I won’t hurt you like he did, Peter. Look at you…” _

Feeling the surface of the man’s tongue travel up navel, tasting every last drop of his own load, nearly had Peter shaking, telltale signs of an anxiety attack creeping up his body, only suppressed out of pure fear of being caught awake. What would he do if he found Peter  _ awake?  _ Would he try it again? Or would he ignore, and pretend not to notice. Even worse--would he realize that Peter needs to be silenced, terrified of what may happen to him if the secret came out, and  _ hurt  _ him? Hurt May, threaten to kill her, threaten to kill  _ him? _

By the time Tucker left the room, Peter’s entire body was shaking from the anxiety attack, the air smelling strongly of damp skin and Tucker’s seed, his inner thighs still slightly slick from the lube the man had applied there.

_ “Nice to see you attending the internship more often.”  _ Mr. Stark snarked one day. Recently, he had been coming over to the tower more and more. Being at home put him in a restless state of unease. He didn’t want to be left alone with the man, because who knew when Tucker decided intecrural somnophilia wasn’t enough? Mr. Stark, as always, is ready to put something in his hands to test his brain, to challenge his thought process, and Peter throws himself into it like a dehydrated man getting a cup of water. It’s easy to forget when he’s attempting to solve some sort of holographic, complex rubik cube that Tony had his AI put together in a couple of minutes. It was just busy work, and had Peter been in a more sound mental state, he might have protested being pushed aside like he was just some kid, when they both knew he was capable of helping out on real projects. But now, he’s just thankful for the distraction.

The cube is hard to solve. He gets the basic idea of how it’s supposed to look, it doesn’t deviate from the normal cube, there are just more cubes to solve and twist and turn. He just has to figure it out, put his mind to it.  _ White there, green here, red over there--no… No, wait. White with white. Red with red. Green with green. Red and--no… no… no that’s not right… _

_ “Kid,” _

_ “Ffffuck--!!” _

A hand was on his back, out of nowhere, and Peter jerked himself away from the warmth, staring down at the hand with a wide eyed, terrified expression.

_ “O...kay.. Touchy.”  _ Mr. Stark said, before putting his hands up in a show of surrender.  _ “I’m not going to hurt you, Underoos. Just… I wanted to know if you wanted a slice of this cake Pepper picked up….” _

More words came out of the man’s mouth. He was explaining something, the origin of the cake, about some stupid conference, or dance, or whatever that Pepper had to go to to schmooze with people and get more sponsors or supporters for Stark Industries (as if they needed it). He probably cracked some joke about how the only good thing she got out of it was the slice, or perhaps, the opposite. She went to a boring ass gala, and went to the buffet to find solace only to be met with cake with the flavor and texture of cardboard. It would have been funny, Peter could have poked fun about how it was all for show, like most things are for rich people. Mr. Stark would dramatically lament about how he wishes he had been born a poor stable boy, and once they had enough of the jokes, Peter would happily take the slice of cake.

He couldn't hear any of it. Peter was submerged 30 feet underwater, or deep in the center of a cup of jello, isolated and insulated from all senses, yet acutely aware of one thing: the fucking cake. The god forsaken cake in Mr. Stark’s hand. It was chocolate, or maybe it was coffee, it was hard to tell, and Peter couldn’t smell. The sides of the cake were decorated in fancy, chocolate scribbles and gold foil, and it was clearly layered with something that may have been butter toffee. Probably a sponge cake, in Peter’s opinion, they have a wonderful texture. A cross between the dense pound cake and a light crepe cake. The toffee would give it a nice crunch, along with a sweet flavor different from the buttercream frosting covering the rest of the cake. The thing looked delicious, that was undeniable.

But it’s not the cake, it’s what happens  _ after  _ he eats. After his stomach is full of something so rewarding and sweet. When he’s digesting, when he has his guard down. Feeling spoiled, feeling loved, feeling  _ warm-- _ only to find out the warmth is a byproduct of whatever strange thing Tucker had been putting in the goddamn cake!

Realization lit up a light bulb over his head and he blurted out,  _ “What did you put in the fucking cake?!”  _ his voice trembling with fear but spitting venom and vitriol, enough to burn a hole through the floor. Mr. Stark, taken aback by his sudden change in attitude, furrowed his eyebrows and stared at him, silent, pensive, for a moment.

_ “Peter.”  _ He finally decided on saying.  _ “Let’s talk.” _

Talking was the second hardest part. Or maybe, it was the hardest. Peter isn’t sure, not even now. The memories of what happened still keep him locked and caged within his mind, a slave to his own past. Recalling the disgusting, horrific details of what  _ might have-- _ no, what  _ did  _ happen to him--to his mentor makes him want to shrivel up and turn to dust. He’s no longer innocent. He’s no longer a normal 15 year old boy. He’s no longer sweet, he’s no longer cute, he’s no longer a blank slate. He sobs, his words coming out hoarse and broken as he describes waking to the feeling of something warm between his thighs, of hearing the sound of groaning, of the large shadow hovering over him. Peter had been touched, and suddenly, like a deadly virus, he was contagious and  _ dirty _ . He was  _ lesser _ .  

They sat together on the couch in Mr. Stark’s living room for four hours, the topic traveling from Tucker, to the cakes and the sweets, to the drugs. They addressed his self-harm, the old scars on his arms, his time spent in the teen’s psychiatric ward. Peter brought up Ben, how much he missed the man, about how fiercely protective and supportive he was through everything. Ben was there, his fists balled up and ready to strike without warning at the world, while May had her arms wrapped around him like an invincible cape, or blanket, insulating him from the harms of the world. He missed Ben, he missed him  _ so much,  _ and cried remembering that at some point, he referred to Tucker as a ‘parent’. Tucker wasn’t a parent, he was barely a human.

_ “The worst feeling in the world is when you realize you’ve been betrayed, or hurt, by someone you thought you could trust. Of someone you let into your life, and let them see all the.. All the shitty parts of you, because you thought you could trust them, only to have them take a knife and lodge it into your back. You want to know what you did to deserve it, and it makes your perception of yourself skewered. But Peter, know that you are not broken. You are not dirty. You did nothing wrong.” _

Mr. Stark threw the cake in the trash without a single thought. Within the hour, he had food ordered to the penthouse, comfort foods only, little dishes of baked mac and cheese, biscuits, grilled cheese, chocolate pancakes, pies and more. There was no way Peter could finish it all, he barely made it through the grilled cheese before calling quits, his appetite essentially nonexistent but being urged by Mr. Stark to eat  _ something.  _ He was then ushered off to the bathroom to wash up for bed, where he spent 30 minutes staring at himself in the mirror, his body on one side and his consciousness and soul on the other.

His bedroom was made, the sheets heavy but warm, and a set of pajamas was laid out for him. All of them were a size too big, clearly belonging to the billionaire, but the fuzzy Hello Kitty sweatpants had a drawstring that he pulled and adjusted. When he examined himself in the full length mirror, he stared back at the reflection in confusion at his own body. It was so  _ small,  _ his posture horrible, bent over like a wilting palm tree. There were dark circles under his eyes that he didn’t remember being there before, and his lips were chapped and bloody. He was breaking out--a teen issue that Peter hardly dealt with because of his lucky genes. On top of that his body was stringy and concave, resembling a pitiful skeleton rather than a healthy teenage boy.

Tucker had done this to him.  _ Tucker had done this to him.  _ He had taken a recovering, healthy, beautiful teen and twisted him into a  _ diseased _ ,  _ dirty _ , and  _ cheap  _ imitation of himself.

That night, his bed burned with anger and hatred.

By morning, Peter came to the living room to find his breakfast laid out for him, and Mr. Stark on the phone with someone. The man acknowledged him with a wave of his hand, then pointed to the pancakes, raising his eyebrows in an expectant expression.

He was driven back to Queens by Mr. Stark himself, rather than taking the train or being chauffeured.

When they pulled up to his complex, Mr. Stark shut the engine off, then stared at the place, his sunglasses concealing his expression.

Before knocking on the door to their apartment, Mr. Stark placed a hand on his shoulder, quickly whipping his sunglasses off to give him a meaningful look. Peter just nodded his head.

He’s 15 feeling like he’s 10 again, sitting through a questionnaire with doctors and police officers. Attempting to quell the jittery, uncomfortable sensation of bugs crawling on his skin when May holds his hand tight enough to possibly break a bone. His legs used to swing when he sat in the blue plastic chairs in the waiting room of the hospital, providing a bit of entertainment, but now he finds himself staring down at the ratty rip-off converse on his feet which are firmly planted to the ground. In the back of his mind he registers the tightness in his jaw, which he is clenching far harder than necessary out of reflex, and he constantly has to remind himself to relax, loosen up. The world passes by in a blur; The sound of shoes hitting the linoleum floor, papers being obsessively shuffled by the receptionist, the low hum of cars passing outside the station, and behind it all, the sound of the clock ticking by, monotonously and slowly.

With the help of Mr. Stark, they get Tucker locked up pretty quickly with a hefty sentence. The billionaire got him a good lawyer, all expenses paid. Turns out that Tucker being locked away wasn’t enough to give him peace of mind, as May is urging him to see his psychiatrist again. They meet, weekly, just to talk about how he’s doing, how he’s feeling, what he’s been doing. The tone in which she asks questions is casual, making it seem as though they were just two strangers discussing topics as mundane as the weather, when in actuality, she wants to know if Peter hurts himself because he feels as though he needs to punish himself for being ‘dirty’. (He doesn’t have an answer for that one until the 11th session.)

_ “You couldn’t have controlled his attraction, Peter, so why are you punishing yourself for being hurt? If someone were to get stabbed, the police wouldn’t arrest them for bleeding out. You certainly wouldn’t punch them for being a victim. So why punish yourself?” _

Sometimes, flowers grow out of the cuticles of his thumbs, preening against the sun streaming through his curtains, giving life to his body. Other days, they’re torn from the soil and wilted. One day, he’ll have a garden.

May stops dating. Peter starts healing, again.

**Author's Note:**

> *Hurt > Comfort  
> *The 'mild blood' and 'self-harm' coincide. The self-harm is described, I would say it's mild, but it is described.   
> *The suicide attempt is a past attempt, and is also described, again, mildly.   
> *Peter has a total of 2.5 anxiety attacks in this fic, and they are described, although mildly.   
> *The past sexual assault is not described. The recent sexual assault is described, graphically, twice, but the scenes are fairly short.  
> If anything else needs to be tagged, let me know.   
> Thanks for reading. The tense in this fic is fucked up, but I have no beta and no intentions of ever getting one, I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for hurting Peter.


End file.
